Duskfire Glacier through the darkness

for @Blackfell; dated 1-2 hours after this thread

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the gods had not forsaken her. she was alive. bloody and mangled—but alive. the thick press of herbs still burned bitter in her wounds, her throat a ruin of scabbed flesh.

the cold bit at her skin where the blood had dried and crusted against her fur, but it did not touch the heat in her bones. it was not enough. none of it would be enough until his corpse was cold and frosted. she would not know peace, not until blackfell returned with sun eater's head hanging in his jaws.

not until he had felt what she did, only this time it would be fatal.

her ear flicked at the sound of footsteps crunching through the frost. she did not look—she knew his tread, heavy and sure, like the march of war, smelt him as he closed in, even through iron. she only shifted, slow and agonizing, as he settled beside her. the heat of him kissed her side, familiar, grounding, but her voice was nothing but a raw croak when she finally spoke. "'fell,"

he is still in his fury. onyx hide disturbed with the wash of such loathing for all. the peak did not listen.
he felt the rise of a crimson tide lurking closer and closer from beyond the ridge.
but it was now he must go, go to wife. moving swiftly into his den where he had ordered she be taken. finding her amongst the oxen hide, plush, alone. svalla gone to madness elsewhere.
gjalla left to rest. her voice croaking, miserably, not even his full name uttered when he lowers beside her.
his breath warm to her cheek.
my love, he whispers to her in their tongue. my life. voice choked by emotion. you will be avenged.
as if she were already dead.

you will be avenged. the words fill her with more than satisfaction, more than anticipation, because she knows the words are true. her husband would stop at nothing for her retribution, but she did not want to be mourned.

a smile tugs at her lips, subtle as she presses her nose to his "you will," she rasps, voice quiet, "do not cry for me. i am here. the gods watch over us, and he is weak as ever. i have made it so."

her limbs felt heavy, her breath thin, but still she pressed closer. her face buried against his chest, cold skin chasing the heat that rolled from him like smoke.

he was there to hold her. and he wished he could stay longer, but he knew that come dawn, things would change. he would go to fight and he would leave her behind, trusting in the gods to not yet take her from him.
not when he had only just gotten her. the gods could not be so cruel. his god could not be so cruel; not when blackfell had been so faithful. so devout.
was this punishment? must he atone?
it is in his open arms that he cradles her, careful not to disturb the wounds that cloud her. to see her throat marred in such a way—it chills him. there is no fire to thaw what ice consumes, there is only coldness left.
they would feel his sting. every last one of them. retribution was coming.
i do not cry. he assures her, though it is with all his strength to not. strength; she needed now. she needed him to be strong. to hold fast. to keep himself together. i am only sorry that i was not there. he whispers.
i showed him mercy when i should not have. i faltered. this is my fault. a stagger in his resolve, then. dropping to his knees in all but reality. forgive me.

"never," she whispered, breath warm against his neck. "there is nothing to forgive."

she let herself sink into him, drinking in the heat of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breath. she was alive. he was alive. they were alive. and that was enough. 

"we will have our revenge," her words are quiet but sure, burning low like embers in the dark. "that one-eyed cur does not know what he has brought upon himself. his fate was sealed the moment he came to me."

her fingers curled tighter into his fur, a vow written in touch, in the stubborn thrum of her pulse. a huff of amusement draws from her memory as she recalls the fight—funny now, even if it wasn’t before. "i almost pushed him off a cliff." would have, if he did not have such a grip on her at the time.

my brave girl. he rumbles to her affectionately. seeing her face now, as she buries herself into his fur. like she is a small girl again, his to protect.
it is a desperate wish that their daughters would be like her. strong, unwavering, loyal.
a paw comes to brush gently her cheek. he wishes to see her eyes, to look into them. periwinkle, fierce; even as she lay mortally wounded. ég mun syngja sálma fólks okkar þegar ég leiði darukaal til bardaga. he says quietly to her. voice the gentlest it had ever been in his life.
now, to her:

sárið djúpt, það blæðir í blóði,
en þú brennur, eldur um nóttina.
fólk mitt, þú ert á leið þinni til hvíldar,
en ég mun berjast á vegum þínum.

she listened, ears twisting forward as he sang. the words settled into her bones, ancient, a hymn carried by their people for generations. for warriors, for the fallen, for those who would not rest until vengeance was won. 

her throat ached, but still, she hummed. softly, at first—just a whisper of sound, barely there, barely formed. but the melody lived in her blood, in her bones, and it carried through her as surely as breath.

gjalla let her voice rise with his, weaving with the deep rumble of his chest. slow, steady. a song for the fallen. a song for those yet to fall.

her body pressed close. we will not die before then. she would not leave him. not now. not ever.

blackfell holds her tighter, listening as her voice joins his—a whisper, raw and fragile, yet powerful. each breath she takes, he takes with her. each heartbeat felt as if it's his own. a union forged in blood, battle, loss.
the song burns in his chest. it resonates deep in the marrow of his bones, awakening old fury, sharpened anew. his vow: blood for blood, life for life.
he will suffer. voice rough, dangerous. a blade drawn. he will know the weight of what he’s done. i swear it.
his muzzle dips to brush gently along her temple, breathing her in. committing her scent, her warmth, to memory—to heart. he holds her close, possessive, protective. quiet strength radiating from the firm embrace.
you will see him fall. a promise. an oath sealed in iron. this, i give you.

gjalla’s breath shudders, caught between pain and something deeper, something primal. the fire in his words feeds her own, rekindling what had dulled beneath the weight of her wounds. he speaks, and she believes.

her claws twitch against his fur, gripping, as if she did not already have his attention. “blackfell.” his name, nothing more, but it carries everything. a plea, a demand, a tether to keep him from slipping into rage.

her lips part, aching, but she does not falter. “do not let it take you from me.” the war, the vengeance, the fury. she knows him too well—knows how easily he can be lost to it.

her breath warms his throat as she buries her face there, drawing from him as much as he draws from her. “come back to me. i need you here,”